


the iron

by carrionqueen (nightquill)



Series: The Ocean [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Minor Injuries, Other, Siblings, The Red Iron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/carrionqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do. // establishing yourself in a nest of mercenaries isn't the easiest thing to do, but it's easier when your brother can bench-press a cow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the iron

The resentment was real, if a little exaggerated. He loved her, of course, and deep in his belly he swelled with pride to be her brother, to be the blade to her bluster. But he'd never admit it. He'd rather curse her with every other breath than have her know how much he respected her - but even with all that love he felt her shadow like a weight, pressing down and down until it threatened to swallow him. He'd always been one of the twins. One of a set. One of a pair. One half of a whole. With Beth gone, it was harder to feel like _himself._ When he looked in the mirror and saw only square, thin features where her soft ones had been, it was hard to remember that he was even real. And when people forgot his name but remembered _hers_ \- Hawke. Cathryn. Cat, when she was finally friendly enough with them - it smothered him. Deep in his belly, right next to the swelling pride, he was afraid of losing himself.

Kirkwall was harsh to them both, and the Red Iron seemed to personify that. In the early days she'd joked that 'Red Iron' stood less for bloody blades and more for rusty ones, but it had only taken one or two short-lived fights to prove that idea wrong. Cat would come home broken-faced, a black eye, a bloodied eyebrow, a hole in her lip she could poke her tongue through. It was funny how rarely her scars showed up after she healed them, considering the magnitude of the one that trailed all up her arm. 

"We just need to show them who's boss," she said one night, and Carver couldn't help but laugh. His fingers were bloody and damp with cheap whiskey as he dabbed at her cut knuckles with a wad of gauze. "But - hey can you bandage these? If Aveline sees she'll go mad." Carver obliged, of course, gently winding the cloth between her fingers and over the breadth of her palm. 

Meeran had been particularly harsh with Carver, and honestly? Carver had appreciated it. Cat was almost coddled after those first few brawls. A mage - and a wicked one, a woman who could blend in, a woman with spirits screaming out her fingertips - was worth a dozen soldiers, and that's all Carver was, really. Especially to the Irons. Meeran was constantly snapping at him - "You die and i've got six men to replace you. You'd better get good and get good quick, kiddo, or you'll wind up food for the crows," and Carver would just scowl, and nod, and _try harder._ He was nothing if not stubborn, if not _absolutely determined_ to prove everyone wrong.

And Cat hadn't woken in fits of anguish at all, this week - he figured she was working out the aggression in the fights, in the mercenary work they were doing, in the way she'd come home covered in blood. Some nights they'd fall asleep sharing a bottle of wine by the fire and Leandra had given up chastising them for it. Carver liked those nights the best, but he'd never admit it.

"What happens if they show _us_ who's boss?" he asked with a smirk, tearing off a new strip of gauze and sliding the bottle over to Cat. It was his turn now and she was always less than gentle with the scrubbing of wounds. A thin gash ran down his forearm, from elbow to wrist, shallow but red and definitely filthy. Cat sloshed whiskey onto the gauze and grinned up at him from the floor. 

"I suppose we fight 'em again until we come out on top. I don't know, Carver. I just want to make the name Hawke one to be proud of around here." she gripped his arm in her left hand and readied the damp gauze in her right, the wrinkled tips of her fingers poking out from the tip of her glove. 

"Of course you do." he'd have rolled his eyes if she hadn't swiped his wound with cheap alcohol. It seared like fire - no, that was insensitive, but _seared_ was the only word for it. It was a cleansing burn though and he was thankful for every tingling itch that came after. She wrapped it deftly and firmly, tying it off near his wrist, slapping it right at the deepest point - "Ouch. Was that necessary?"

"No," she smiled, kissed his cheek, and slipped away. He scowled after her.


End file.
